


Good Chemistry

by Syrinx



Series: Chimerical [12]
Category: Thoroughbred Series - Various Authors
Genre: Canon - Book, F/M, Humor, Snow and Ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-24
Updated: 2010-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrinx/pseuds/Syrinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashleigh and Brad need to get home in the snow. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

> Slight Ashleigh/Mike. Some barely implied Ashleigh/Brad. In the netherworld between Wonder's Victory and Ashleigh's Dream, this fic is having a grand old time.

It snows on Valentine’s Day. Not the kind that sticks for a second and is gone the next, or the fine dust that scatters like sugar on the grass. No, this is the kind that clings and clumps. It soaks into shoes and socks, because who the hell has snow boots in Kentucky? Ashleigh wants to know.

She stands on the deserted, totally white street and stares at her car, which is sitting nose-first in a ditch. The front bumper is crumpled into an unfortunately placed rock, which can only be seen because her car ran into it. Otherwise it would be camouflaged white, like everything else.

Ashleigh feels a very intense need to kick her car. Or herself. She left her cell phone in her locker. Who does that? Oh, people with their heads screwed on wrong. That’s who. So here she is, three miles from the farm, with her car in a ditch and precisely nobody within shouting distance to help her. At least it’s a Friday, she reasons, and then looks around her. No, it still _sucks_.

And it’s still snowing. She glares down at the snow piling over the toes of her shoes and feels none of the childlike joy she should be feeling for a snow day that involves actual snow.

She resolves to start walking, so she goes back to her car and wiggles into the backseat to grab her bag and her keys. By the time she’s hauling herself back to the ground, she can hear a distant roar, the kind that vaguely sounds like an engine.

Forgetting everything she’s ever learned about taking rides from strangers, not talking to strangers, not accepting things from strangers, and basically treating everyone like they could potentially be diseased, Ashleigh bounds into the road, ready to fling her arms out and flag down whoever is about to come along.

She is not going to be stuck walking three miles home, damn it. There is no way that’s happening.

The engine sounds growl louder, and Ashleigh feels a little spike of sheer happiness when she sees the beginnings of what looks to be a giant white truck hauling ass down the road like it’s not snowing and there isn’t five inches of snow on streets that, quite frankly, won’t be plowed. She shrinks a little closer to her car, some of her bravado slipping when she realizes flagging down a truck going that fast might equal it sliding right over her while it’s attempting to stop.

It’s the flash of green and gold lettering on the passenger door that catches her eye, and that’s when she throws caution to the wind. She waves both arms at it, and whoever’s driving damn well notices because the truck jerks left, away from her, and begins to slide.

There’s a grinding noise followed by a squealing noise and Ashleigh literally can’t believe what she’s seeing because the truck’s there one minute and the next it’s in the ditch on the opposite side of the road. The truck’s rear wheels are in the ditch, one front wheel is hanging on for dear life on the road, and the driver’s side wheel is hanging about two feet above the ground.

Ashleigh covers her gaping mouth with her hands. The truck is still on, and whoever it is tries for a minute or two to use all of that horsepower to do something effective, but after snow and mud and dead grass have been spit in all directions the truck goes silent and the door opens wide.

Brad Townsend jumps out. If Ashleigh ever cursed, this would be a perfect time.

She doesn’t. So he does.

“What the fuck, Ashleigh?”

“What was that?” she retaliates, pointing at the truck.

“That was me trying not to run over you,” he rages.

“I needed to get your attention,” she yells at him, giving her car an obvious glare and then transferring that look to him. “Why the hell were you driving so fast?”

“Why should you care?” he counters. “Are you going to write me a ticket?”

“Why should I care?” she asks, gives him the you-are-too-stupid-to-live glare again. “I should care because you came within a few feet of killing me, you moron.”

“Then don’t jump in the street like a mad woman,” he says. “God, everything has to be such a damned melodrama with you.”

“I cannot believe we are having this discussion,” she yells over him. “Just shut up!”

And then things go deadly quiet. The snow falls around them and it’s all pretty and Ashleigh is fuming and Brad looks like he wants to break something, preferably with his bare hands.

For a minute neither speaks. The snow starts coming down harder, and still no one drives by to rescue them because Ashleigh is beginning to think they’re both total idiots in comparison to the rest of the population of Kentucky.

“Okay,” she says quietly, takes a deep calming breath. “Where’s your phone? We can call someone at the farm to pick us up.”

He gives her a withering look. Her hopes totally sink and then die.

“Why don’t you have your phone?” she asks him.

“What, don’t you have yours?” he asks in return. She sighs. Fine. Touché. Whatever.

“We are the stupidest people in Kentucky,” she grumbles.

“I might give you that,” he says, brushes the snow out of his hair and gives the sky a pissed off stare.

“How long do you think it would take to walk?” she asks, looking down the road.

“I don’t know,” he replies, more than a little surly. “An hour?”

God, she just wants to kill herself now. Instead she trudges forward, and leaves him behind. If he wants to stay with the cars, she’s more than happy to let him do that. She thinks she might be looking forward to a blissful hour of silence and bitter cold and wet shoes when she hears him jogging through the snow to catch up with her.

When he falls into step with her, he slips and nearly takes her out. They both do a panicked hand-holding, grabby thing with each other and gain their balance enough to keep on their feet. She shoves at him and he immediately lets go.

“Why are you even here?” she asks, annoyed.

“Three day weekend, initially,” he shrugs. “Looks like it will be longer, since New York is under two feet of snow.”

“That’s just great,” she says, giving him a forced smile. It’s all teeth and unenthused peppiness.

“Yes,” he says, voice just as fake as her smile, “my purpose in life is to make sure your life is shit. I’m glad I could be here to personally ruin your day, Ashleigh. Not that you didn’t have a fine start all by yourself.”

“Look around you, Brad,” she says. “I’m starting to think that theory is holding a little water.”

“Snow, maybe.”

“Shut _up_.”

“And walk for an hour in silence?”

“Yes.”

“Then that goes against my god-given purpose,” he says. “How will I cope?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Branch out a little. Maybe you’ll find a hobby.”

He laughs, genuinely, loudly, like what she said is actually funny. She gives him a curious, maybe slightly confused look out of the corner of her eye.

Then he gives her what she wants and everything falls silent.

For maybe, like, seven minutes.

“So what were your plans today?” he asks, taunting but maybe a little bit interested. He wants to make fun, but he also wants to know, probably so he can make fun later.

“You’re assuming I’m not going to do anything for Valentine’s Day,” she says, keeps tromping through the snow.

“Did you miss that there’s five inches of snow on the ground?” he asks her indignantly. She looks over at him and feels such an urge to pick up some snow and shove it in his stupid, handsome, stupid face. She restrains herself, just barely.

“I did notice that,” she says archly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but Mike’s inventive.”

He snorts. “I’ll bet.”

“Shut up.”

He smiles.

“You know,” he says, five minutes of silence later. “We can probably save some time if we cut over the field.”

“I am not cutting over a field,” she says.

“Why not?” he asks. “It’s my field.”

“It’s probably just faster to take the road,” she says. “And what if a car comes by?”

“Have you seen a car?” he asks her. “At all? In the past fifteen minutes? How much do you want to bet that there isn’t another one for the next forty-five? And even if there was one, do you really think they’re going to slow down and help us out?”

“Why not?” she replies stubbornly. “It’s better than setting off across a freaking field.”

“The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, you know.”

“Wow, that’s so enlightening.”

“And this road is definitely not a straight line.”

“We are staying on the damned road,” she tells him.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Whatever.”

Then she slips and falls and he laughs.

And she has had it. She swipes up some of the very wet, very cold snow in her bare hand and throws it at him. He dodges out of the way, grinning wickedly, and so she throws another, catching him on the knee.

So he gives her a look that means she's going to see some retaliation, right now, and before she can get herself up he's pegged her in the arm. With a squeak of very girly, indignant rage, she gathers up as much snow as she can in both hands and hurls it at him, hitting him in the shoulder.

That's when he gives her this look. She's recognized it on Rory, and even with Mike, which if she sits there and thinks about that long enough would make her give pause. She doesn't want to think about that at all, because _ew_.

Ashleigh bolts to her feet and sprints down the road. Or, rather, she runs as fast as she can over five inches of wet, slippery snow without falling on her face. Her bag bangs heavily against her hip, and she can hear him coming behind her because of course he has to be taller and faster, doesn't he?

So she decides to pull an about face and attack, which stuns him nicely. He clips her and slips, falling on his butt. It's her turn to laugh, right in his face, and it is so very satisfying. She stoops quickly to scoop up some snow, throwing it at him and getting him in the chest.

Then she turns and darts off, trying to put some space between them and gain an advantage. Maybe he'll get tired of the game if there's no hope of catching her, she thinks wildly to herself right before that theory gets shot all to hell when he proves that he is indeed faster and stronger by catching up to her in a few strides and wrapping his arms around her from behind.

She shrieks, then slips, throwing all her weight against his chest as they both go down into the snow.

He hits the ground pretty hard, and then there's her on top of him. He may be her mortal enemy and everything, but she wouldn't wish a sudden fall to pavement on anybody. Unfortunately, she's still high on the adrenaline and twists out of his grasp, throwing another handful of snow at his head and trying to stand up.

That doesn't work out too well when he reaches out and grabs her leg, keeping her from getting away and also keeping her on the ground. She slips and tumbles onto her back. He rubs a good amount of snow into her hair, then drags his fingers over her face for good measure. She grabs anything she can reach, doing the same to any part of him that she can hit while he presses her down into the snow right there in the road, hovering over her and at least presenting a target if she can't escape his hands.

It's a wild fit, and it only ends when she finds herself laughing so hard she can hardly breathe. He's grinning like a maniac, laughing right along with her. She covers her face with her hands, trying to get a breath while her lungs ache and burn. They'll both be dripping wet when they get to the farm, and there won't be any way to explain it.

He rolls off of her and lands on his back on the road, stretches his arms out from his body. She lifts her head a little to look at him and then drops it accidentally onto his arm, still laughing so hard she thinks she might actually be a little hysterical. Her hands move from her face to her ribs, tears tracking down her face from the pain of laughing so damn hard.

After a minute, they stay just like that. Laughter dies down until all she can hear is snow. It's pleasant, almost. She's not sure if she's ever been this happy around him, if she's laughed this hard _ever_.

Finally he looks up, seems to notice her head pillowed there on his arm. His eyes roam over her tear-streaked cheeks and he says, “You okay? That was a lot of falling.”

“I'm okay,” she nods. “How about you?”

“Pretty damn good,” he says. They sit up, and he at least acts like a nice guy and helps her to her feet.

They walk the rest of the way back and manage not to yell. A car never comes by. It takes an hour and twelve minutes before they get to the Townsend Acres main gate.

Later, when Mike arrives at the farm in a horse drawn sleigh, she may have jumped up and down and clapped her hands. She believes this may have been the girliest thing she's ever done, if you didn't count that shrieking incident with Brad on the road. She doesn't, of course.

When they're sleighing their way around the farm, she hears something collide with the wooden back of the carriage. Mike doesn't hear it, but she turns around to look behind them, thinking she's heard something, but not quite sure what.

Sure enough, she spots the wet mark of a snowball on the peeling paint. Then she sees Brad leaning against the section of fence they've just passed.

He smirks and gives her the finger.

She reacts in kind.


End file.
